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in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation 

In Memory 



Editors' Note . . . 

In last years Editors' Note I tried to encourage all the wallflower 
artists and poets, those that keep their work to themselves, to come 
out of hiding and submit their work to the Gleaner. Last year we also 
used photographs and detailed drawings to improve the appearance 
of the magazine. I think these factors stirred a new interest among 
the student body. 

I consider the present edition a success just by basing it on the 
growing support we had this year. A staff of two has grown to eight. 
We received over twice as many contributions as last year. The size 
was enlarged from 5" x 8" to 10" x 8". And we expanded from 
thirty-two to forty-eight pages. That's not even considering the 
content of the Gleaner. 

I am very pleased with the increased interest in the Gleaner on 
this campus. However, it is still only a small portion of all the people 
who write, draw, and take photographs. We have talked about 
publishing Fall and Spring editions next year. To do this we need 
even more support than we had this year. The success of the Gleaner 
depends on you, the students. We need your continued support, 
interest, and creativity. 


Established 1901 


SPRING 1978 


CHRIS McCARRON— Assistant Editor 



Diane DeVore 

Bill Purcell 

Beverly Tichy 

Sue Crane 

Chris Shimko 

Gwen Schubert 

Connie Bish 

Marian Verrastro 

Debbie Kupiec 

Nancy Bailer 


Annette Capp 

Matthew McDonnel 

Sue Crane 

Lynn Mazzei 

Diane DeVore 

Terri Domagala 

Edward O'Brien. Jr. 

Russ Dougherty 

Mel Rawls 
Tom Richardson 

Karen Frey 

Glenn Sharko 


Marian Verrastro 

Bill Hornby 

Dr. Richard Ziemer 

Index to Artwork and Photographs 

Page Name 

Cover Glenn Sharko 

5 Marian Kloter 

8 Chris Shimko 

11 Sue Crane 

15 Chris McCarron 

17 Bill Purcell 

19 Chris McCarron 

21 Glenn Sharko 

22 Marie Kovacs 

23 Marian Kloter 

24 Marie Kovacs 

25 Glenn Sharko 

26 Marie Kovacs 

Marian Kloter 

27 Louise Sanders 

Bill Purcell 

28 Glenn Sharko 

Marian Kloter 

30 Chris Shimko 

31 Chris McCarron 

32 Bill Purcell 

37 Chris Shimko 

38 Bill Hornby 

41 Diane Devore 

43 Chris McCarron 

44 Sue Crane 

47 Diane DeVore 

48 Chris Shimko 

THE GLEANER is published during the scholastic year by the students of 
Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture of Doyiestown, Penna. 
THE GLEANER is a student publication, and the opinions expressed within 
are not necessarily those of THE GLEANER staff or administration. Neither 
the college nor staff will assume responsibility for plagiarism unknowingly 
occurring within. 

How to Eat A Poem 

Don't be polite, 

Bite in. 

Pick it up with yourfingers and lick the juice 

that may run down your chin — 
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. 
You do not need a knife or fork or spoon 
or plate or napkin or tablecloth. 
For there is no core 
or stem 
or rind 
or pit 
or seed 
or skin 

to throw away. 

Eve Merrian 


Days of Laughter, 

Days of Joy, 

Days of little girls and boys 

Playing the game 'I declare war' 

Mom yelling, 'Don't slam the door.' 

Pretending bikes were motorcars, 

Putting a villain behind bars. 

Hide and go seek, now you're it 

Winter snow, how the cold bit! 

Swimming pools with water only two inches deep, 

Lying in bed, hear monsters creep 

Eating lunch at Grandma's house 

Cat brings home her very first mouse 

Dreams and wonders you don't understand 

Going to mom for the cut on your hand 

First crushes and first hurt 

Playing baseball, slide in the dirt! 

Thunder and lightning, hold someone tight 

Mom breaking up another fight 

Childhood days have now all passed 

They are memories, forever to last. 

Marian Verrastro 

In your search for survival, 

Are we losing our position together 

As companions, conspirators, coordinators 

Of the special bond we knit 

By being of the fragile strands we are? 

Why must you pull now? 

Your weaving, taking from me 

The very special fibers that made us our unity. 

The unravelling, the tangling, 

Will its continuation destroy our masterpiece? 

Karen Frey 

Dark clouds enshroud me, 

for I am a thunderstorm. 
Thunder; the confusion and turmoil in my mind 
Lightning; the harsh which strike people down 
Rain; the tears of sorrow I shed for 

what little remains. 

Diane DeVore 

Thoughts without words are easily lost in the search. 

Karen Frey 

As weathered winds in storms do blow 
so is the illusion of truth that may paint so well. 
Seemingly relentless at first, 
undying and forceful 
Only to suddenly cease beating 
And return to the calm, honest things 
that were before. 

Tom Richardson 

Fox-hunting: Meditation 

The triptych hung on the wal I of the inn, 

A painting of people on horses, dogs frisking about, 

With a comfortable, country house in the background. 

Then a horse and rider jumping fence, others coming; 
And then the hunters resting their mounts by a forest, 
Chatting with one another, the day nearly over. 

Men, women, horses, dogs, and fields; 
The persuit of an elusive little creature — 
Surely these are unassuming elements. 

Why do these scenes summon the heart, 
Why do red-coated men or black-clad women 
On stately horses chasing the fox entice the eye? 

Are they not vacant Tory gentlemen and leathery ladies, 
These pecunious people in their breeches and boots; 
If one could meet them, would they not be dull? 

Dr. Johnson, riding once to hounds, found them so. 
And doubtless their Church and Party would not be yours 
Nor even their notions of sport or land use. 

What is, then, the charm of the chase? 
Is it the smell of money, the lure of leisure, 
Or the snobbery of bon ton, of "quality"? 

For some the brazen love of hunting itself — 
The persuit of wild animal in noisy company; 
The shouting of men, the yelping of hounds. 

For others the call of history, of nostalgia: 

For doing of a thing that was done when Trajan ruled, 

In a setting that was the same when Beckett preached. 

For those who wi 1 1 never fol low the flash 
Of fox, perhaps delight in elegant forms, 
Of woman on horse, traversing emerald realms; 

Orthe link with bold, exotic literature; 

The intricate tapestry woven by the Pearl-poet, 

His stirring chases of the deer, the boar, the fox; 

Or only the approval of a well-made painting, 
Of a cracked and dusty and faded triptych 
Hanging on the wall of an amiable inn. 

I am still uneasy, after saying all this. 
The sybaritic tinge of that equine face is 
What induces a reluctant kiss. 

Some afternoon the final call of the horn 

May sound for the Belvoir, the Pytchley, and the Quorn; 

Three famous packs whose passing few will mourn. 

We may regret the loss of what fox-hunting brings, 
Of what comes to us early, and clings: 
Pure sport is part of the poetry of things. 

Edward O'Brien, Jr. 

Wilted flower, 
Turning brown, 
Never been praised, 
Never been appreciated, 
Never been picked, 
Never been a rose, 

Glenn Sharko 

Losin' Blues 

Wasting away with the end drawing near 
Wasting the day with my head fixing fear 
Seeing through Sunday when God is so clear 
Lasting till someday when death bells I hear 

Waiting for word on return of my love 
Waiting for word from the Lord up above 
Finding my new dawn is gone with the sun 
Flying away with the wind on the run 

Wishing my life had just quit then and there 
So to the winner it's only too fair 
Me I'm a loser there's only despair 
Why do I reach for a handful of air 

Still I keep climbing never reaching the top 
Just one more step till I slip and I drop 
Down to the bottom where grief does not stop 
God help this poor man who's tied in a knot . . 

Smell of disinfectant 

brings back a wave 

of days better forgotten . . . 

Sneakin out of class for a smoke 

Scratching for solace 

from the alone-ness I felt 

in those sterile high school halls 

I sunk to such depths 

back then, 

Suffered such icy isolation 

Walls of fear surrounded, 

So thick 

All covered 

with a thin veil of fantasy 

Sittin in the bathroom 

Aching for a ride — 

Every sense, every thought, 

every space in my whole 


was filled with such an ache 

for a high 

Searching for a heaven — 

. . . Never knowing it lay inside. 


Holding hands over little boy's eyes, 

Don't let him seethe 

Bad and the ugly and 

The filth and the hate, 

But how can he be prevented 

From seeing where he lives. 


Holding hands over little boys ears, 

Don't let him near 

The words of criticism or 

The words of hate or love, 

But how can he be protected 

From truth. 


Holding onto little boy, 

Keeping him from reality, 

Keeping him from life. 

Glenn Sharko 

The Voyages End 

My voyage almost now complete 
It seems to me a good time to rest 

these weary feet. 
The ship has set sail for that golden 

line far out on the ocean, 
And the thought of you is keeping 

my mind in constant motion. 

The sails are feeding on the gusts of wind, 
And soon there will be no more letters 

for us to send. 
I am sailing for that rocky shore where 

you have always waited for me, 
And only God knows how I long for 

that harbor to be my final destiny. 

The sea has always been a good friend 

of mine throughout the past, 
But now I'm afraid she is about to see me 

for the last. 
However, the parting shall be sweet 

and for the good; 
For just like you, my heart she has 

always understood. 

Mel Rawls 

see me' 
■•■AWttfthe prettiest 
n^-'ftiat a woman can 
'v'^J want you. 



Y&Lmst as strong 

is thejerce within 

that hiwwith a slap-like an icy wind 

Pulling rre&way and into myself 

Binding mevftth its razor-sharp crystals 

Yi back to my dark cold road 
ms I been walking this road 
So tired^f chopping up pretty things 

to c^partmefits to keep myself alone 
So tired of rurraing. 

alwpj touched you. 
Jjjut that old self crept upon me 
: i.' in the night 

" Stalking-so silently slipping her 
noose around my neck. 
"you got to run away now 


# * * Wi 

Morning busts forth , 

Wrappings md ■injtswarmt 

like sunsfiirj'e on & quilt 

like good smells from the 

Like everything I always w 

believe in but couldn't 

Good things, pure things, true things 

are all part of this embrace. 

I walk in a new light today 

as if the pain of the night has cleansed 

me way down deep inside and has set me free 

That old self must have died a little more 

Because I rise up and start on a new 

road, walking slowly, gently, but 

with sure steps. 

Like a new rosebud 

my heart opens 

unfolding itself to your love. 

My arms open up like achilds' — to 

you in. 

take you in. I want you. 


A boyish man, unsatisfied with the standard, stereotype ac- 
tions and reactions between people, looked at his own actions 
and realized these actions were not really his own. They were so 
pred ictable and so close to the stereotype actions that he became 
so disgusted with what he was that he left himself. He walked out 
leaving the cement walk, the hard wood floors behind. As he 
walked down the steel streets, people with masks carved from oak 
scorned him demanding him to return to the red brick house with 
the cement walls having bland life-less pictures on them, back to 
the hard wood which never cushioned the foot but flattened the 
hard callous developing on them. 

He looked back, thinking that maybe that pointless security 
was right because of all the persecution, but as he looked back he 
was startled by the sight of a real face. The solid square lines of 
the oak mask were not there. The solid texture of a mask with the 
look of compassion showing on the round, changing lines. The 
eye si its of the mask could not hide the eyes screaming of the love 
and pity they had for him. As this was going on, the people with 
stereotypic phrases chastised him but in vain because all he 
heard were the lips begging him to be happy, seek himself. With 
that his mask dropped, the people outside of the red brick house 
disgustedly stomped inside slamming their doors behind them. 

The slate sidewalk ended right outside the city limits, and soft, 
plush grass came up to meet his now unsheathed feet. 

As he came to another city he put his shoes back on so that 
his feet could withstand the punishment of the sidewalk. As he 
stepped on the first slab the heel of his shoe sank into it. He 
figured maybe the sidewalk was wet but his foot bounced out. He 
bent down, touched it and it turned out to be foam rubber. Barefoot 
again he bounced down the street feeling the softness. The first 
person he came to he greeted in the usual manner, that being a 
quick look in the eyes then to the ground. This person was not riled 
by this and greeted him in their usual way, an embrace and a kiss 
on the nape of his neck. He was taken back at his action and 
demanded an explanation for this person's action. The explana- 
tion was that it feels good. The next person he met did the same 
thing, and as more people performed the action he was more 
indoctrinated to believe this was a common practice. He began 
greeting people in the same manner and began to make acquain- 
tances during his stay. He made friends with a certain girl and she 
treated him in a way which seemed to him to be affectionate. Upon 
seeing more and more of her until the ultimate intimacy was 
performed; he knew her and knew how she made every nerve 
send sensations throughout him. In essence she was a perfect 
physical lover. She touched him when and where it gave him most 
physical satisfaction. 

While making passionate love he told her he loved her and she 
was puzzled at the word so the entire process came to a grinding 
hault. He tried to explain the elusiveness of love, but she neither 
wanted to feel the emotion nor try to understand it or its implica- 

He loved her but could not accept the fact that she could not 
love. The sensations produced began to be as predictable as the 
actions that were done where he came from. He pressed to teach 
her of love but she went away forgetting him. The touching was 
only to satisfy so that she would be satisifed in return. The ab- 
sence of feeling hurt him so much that he had to leave that town. 
He put on his shoes so that he would feel the softness of the foam 
rubber sidewalk. 

As he walked down the road another town came into view. Its 
buildings were in geometrical designs and the shrubs were 
pruned in that manner also. 

His first encounter with an inhabitant was interesting because 
he greeted that person the way he greeted people in the previous 

He was looked at as being abnormal with an incapability to 
adjust to an intellectual community. The greeting that he must now 
conform to was a "Wall Street" type handshake along with stating 
the latest, up-to-date weather forecast. 

He started to board in one home in this community. The people 
living there were participating in discussions of politics, scientific 
theories, and chess moves that in theory would terminate a game 
within ten moves. Two people were playing chess but without a 
board or pieces. 

A girl living upstairs from his challenged him to a game of 
chess which he accepted with the condition that they be able to 
use a board. 

They played every day during his stay and began to become 
quite close. One day he reached over the chess board and 
touched her gently on the cheek. She instantly went into a fifteen 
minute, carefully prepared speech pertaining to the instinctive 
sexual behavior of the males in the species, void of emotion and 
the knowledge of the feelings that physical contact can convey. 
He tried to explain to her the feeling produced inside while the 
acts of touching occurred. She became enraged and demanded 
he leave the town quietly or else she would have to turn him to the 
authorities because physical touching was illegal only because 
the physical and emotional subtracted from the intellectual. 

As she demanded, he obeyed and left as he came, quietly 
walking out of that intellectually hungup community. 

Upon coming to the next town, he saw that it was a combina- 
tion of his home town and the first town that he had visited. 

Meeting the first person he awaited the greeting, knowing that 
it would be different from all those he had previously known. The 
person handed him an apple, seeing he was hungry from his 
journey. This person, a woman, took him home, fed him, and put 
him up for the night. He asked why she had done this and she 
replied, "In this place, what one has is everyone's." His heart was 
warmed by her response; he thanked her with a combination of 
praise and a kiss on the cheek. She understood neither. She told 
him that it was her duty to share and to feed those who needed to 
be fed and to help whoever needed to be helped. 

He felt estranged from that place because he felt he had 
nothing to give and in no way could he help anyone. He told her 
that he must leave, that this place was no place he should choose 
to inhabit. He left the same day with a coat, a bag of apples, and a 
sandwich which she gave him. Along the way there was a man 
clothed in just a pair of jeans and sneakers and curled up to stay 
warm because dusk was approaching. 

The coat which was a gift was given away once more and the 
man was prepared for the evening. With the coat the man received 
some apples to nourish him until his next meal. Our traveler 
became content and the joy of helping increased as he gave 
apple after apple away as he walked. There was a man tending 
the gate at the edge of the city who received the gift of his last 
apple. Upon walking down the road the next morning, eating the 
sandwich that was prepared for him, he came upon a town that 
was very familiar. 

It was his home town and he was almost going to turn around 
but he had to return. It was an inevitability. He returned walking 
past his mask still lying on the sidewalk. 

Hesawthemaskless body approaching him and she inquired 
about his journey. They sat together next to a trickling stream and 
he told her of his travels. While dealing with the subject, he found 
himself with his head in her lap sharing the experience while 
dealing with these abstracts intellectually. 

That is the time when he found himself. He had not found 
himself on any of his other trips; he did not find himself staying 
where he was either, but he did find himself combining what he 
had learned in all of his experiences and applying it to a deep and 
meaningful relationship with the one he now loves. 

Russell Doughty 


I killed a mosquito today, but 
I'm still 

Dr. Richard Ziemer 


Cows and corn and spreaders of manure 
Hay and beans and milk I'm sure 
Sun and soil and rain to cure 
This is what I am living for! 

Sue Crane 

To Jean 

All the change and confusion 

promises and false illusions, 
Walking forward and always trying 
The joys with laughing, 

sorrow with crying 
And this they say is growing up. 

Rushing, pushing, always on the go 
What's right for me I do not know 
Fearing and wondering, 

"Do I belong here?" 
All is hazy, confused, nothing is clear 
And this they say is growing up. 

And if you find someone who's always there 
Listening to thoughts you want to share 
A companion, a buddy, a someone you could depend on 
Suddenly they're gone, — 

facing the loss of a friend 
And this they say is growing up. 

A thought of Dying 

Standing here, a cemetery plot, 
Wondering, thinking, questioning. 
A thought of how they lived the life, 
Which they lived and died, most likely alone. 

A feeling of not belonging 
It seems I have no say, 
A stranger asking deep inside 
Is it real ly better that way? 

Life passes so quickly, 

Death happens as fast, 

It is a chance to get away. 

You think — finally — rest (death) at last. 

A cemetery is a resting place, 

Tomb stones toppled (no one cares). 

Growing weeds out of place, 

This makes it embarrassing to the race (people) 

People pretend they care so much, 

Not really — the cemetery is uncared for, 

They seem to care too much 

About living a full life 

Yet missing life's real meaning. 

Annette Capp 

Terri Domagala 

Walking in the morning, 
He looks through sleepy eyes 
Into the bathroom mirror, 
Sees nothing. 

Goes down town, 

Trips and falls, 

Woman stumbles over him, 

Curses him out. 

Stopping at the house of God, 
He stands in front of the 
Worshippers and denounces God, 
They pray on. 

Wanting to dance, 
He looks for a girl, 
Suddenly entwined 
With their partners. 

Sitting with the lonely 
Old man in the park, 
Talking unnoticeably to a body 
With its hearing aid turned off. 

Picking flowers in the meadow, 
He lies in the forest, 
Feeling warm, 
Flowers still in hand. 

Time passes, 
Flowers die, 
Grass grows, 
Flesh erodes. 

Born anew, 
Ribs turn into roots, 
Blood to sap. 

Lovers stop at tree to 
Carve initials into bark, 
Sap flows forth 
Like tears long overdue. 

Glenn Sharko 


The Final 

and Aggies sit for their exam final 
In History and Parasitology; 
But it could just as easily be 
Poly Sci or Sociology. 

Watch these Aggies as they write, 
Concentrating with all their might, 
Trying to capture words on a page 
'Ere they're a moment's thought of age. 

Of all these students I help proctor 
A few know me as "Doctor". 
O'er forty students here I know 
On whom this college will bestow 

A degree for courses 

Which they've had on hogs or horses 

Cows or bees, bio or cheese 

Bus Ad, agronomy, chem or trees. 

A few seem so well relaxed 
You'd think they never had the axe 
Fallon their pates 
From birth to date. 

Still others struggle to get their best 

In that exam book for the test 

Which holds them in such wrapt attention 

That they writhe, oblivious to all distraction. 

Tho' they write no Congressional Record, 
Their pens and pencils push with one accord. 

Guess I envied their composin', 
And to keep myself from dozin', 
Grabbed my pen to write 
And share a modicum of their plight. 

Dr. Richard C. Ziemer 

It's a boy! It's a boy! It's a boy! 
Come crawl to me, come crawl to me. 
You can, if you will, 

You will I know, you are like me. 
Comewalkwith me, little fella, be like me. 
You are not you; 

but you will be me. 
Come run with me little boy, you run like me. 
Let me see little man, 

do I see me? 
you are you or are you? Or are you me? 
Or just an endless entity; 

Matthew McDonnell 


I wish someone could 
how I feel inside. 
It's kinda like the feeling you get 
when you fail, 

and you really tried. 
It's kinda like when you lose a love, 
and you feel 

It's almost like when you want to die, 
you cry, 

and hide your face. 
I can't compare this feeling. 

'cause it's one I've never had. 
The best way to describe it is, 
it just makes me feel so 

Marian Verrastro 


The rain trickles down the window 

Like drops of tears from empty eyes 

Streaming down a blank face. 

Tears — falling for forgotten reasons 

From a long-ago-life once lived — 

That means nothing now and yet continue, 

Their very uselessness 

Attesting to their reality, 

Yet from these tears of long ago, 

Buried in the long-ago reasons of their existence, 

Springs new life 

And reasons for tomorrow. 

Lynn Mazzei 


Can't escape the tragic feeling 

Like I lost on Sunday's kneeling 

Can't expect my mind to wonder 

On through the mists of plight and blunder 

Wishful thinking brings only unrest 
For today's thinking is always the best 
Think not of tomorrow or days gone by 
Thinking is for the wondering why. 

Live at ease with life's little lessons 

Take in mind all man's endless sessions 

Pass through time without bothering the thoughtless 

Don't trouble your head because you have thought best 

Think for once of the inevitable stakes 

On how it is probable to force your mistakes 

But learn from your troubles, it's life's wisest book 

You'll find yourself thinking if only to look . . . 

Looking for our love, 

I knocked on your door and 

Asked you if you 

Had it and 

You smiled so I kissed 

You and I realized that 

I didn't have our love, 

So I asked you 

Where you hid it. 

Glenn Shark o 


You turn on 

I turn off 

You turn off 

I turn on 

You playgames 

I play along 

You stopped playing 

I didn't know 

I'm playing games 

You play no more 

I am baffled 

I am alone. 

Annette Capp 


There are times when I can tell where my feet must go 
Through my mind I must agree my movements must be slow 
See what's unkind . . . what is free . . . what will grow 
Look and adore 

Then again I must dive in and fight out my life 
Remember when? I must begin ... It cuts me like a knife 
It was then an origin from the dark night 
To daylight's door 

My hands are bound my legs are tied with a chain or line 
The harshest sounds my ears have tried to exclude from my mind 
My ears have found it's inside a conscious sign 
I won't be forlorn 

Life's a play I won't delay in playing out my part 
It's not to say that this maylay is someone elses art. 
It's now my day . . . it's my display . . . I've time to start 
to write the score 

fiuss Doughty 


Big painted smile 

Covered frown, 

Funny glasses 

Cover tear filled eyes, 

People laugh. 


Sat quietly, 

Dreaming of happy home, 




Make us smile, 

Do a trick, 

Tell a joke, 

Make a happy face. 


Hiding tears, 

Dreams of dreams 

Things he's not. 


Lying still, 


Finally in the 

World of his dreams. 

Glenn Sharko 

know nothing more times opened by mistake than the mouth. 

Tom Richardson 

White Lace 

Sifting back through lost space 
I come across a piece of aged white lace. 
Where it came from I do not know, 
Yet I see in my dream it swirls against 
the falling snow. 

Who it belongs to I cannot say — 
It must be left over from some previous day. 
The breast it laid upon is a fantasy of the past, 
And the hands which used to know they're feeling well, 
have grown old and cease to last. 

The softness of the lace is no longer true: 
Even the color has lost its hue. 
The solitary fringes are frail and weak, 
Sigh nothing but memories of yesteryear 
for them to seek. 

To think! that this fragment of lace 

can possess all of my desire! 
What selfish ignorance upon my part. 
What to do? Where to turn? My head is full of fire. 
Why didjnot see that lace hates heart? 

Tic tic tatter 

fork on a platter 

bring me my meal will you please? 

It does not matter 

that I grow fatter 

oh, how I love apples and cheese. 


a beer with my supper 

bring me my drink will you please? 

fill up my cupper 

and I will drunk upper 

oh, how I love coffees and teas. 

The Rising Tide 

My life is like the rising tide 
The setting sun keeps me alive 
Don't really care when I will die 
I am to live, or at least try 

I've been on life and lost a few 
Always something better to do 
Many days have seen me be blue 
It's been from those days that I grew 

If you look and see my crying 
There is no need to start to frown 
Can't you see the tide is rising 
Won't be long I will come around 

I must live like the sun and wind 
Too many places I've not been 
When I am down, the wind blows in 
Tho setting sun, new days begin 

And if you care to reach my mind 
I'm sure that I could find the time 
Just try to look out through my eyes 
In them you'll see the rising tide 


^— — 

A Glimpse of the Bright Shadow 

If Tris hadn't been so careless in letting things lie around 

His full name was Tristan Howard Campion, and though he 
was legally an American citizen, he seemed more English than 
Yankee; and though Catholic, he seemed more Anglican than 
Roman. Lover of European monarchy and classical music, of 
heritage and heraldry, Tris Campion combined a mystical piety 
with a realistic political conservatism. Austere, yet kindly, he 
became a figure out of the past as he fluently spoke of British 
India, or Theology, or the contradictions of liberalism. He loved 
good conversation, so that you felt lifted up and brought into 
contact with living history; he flattered you that way. It was excit- 
ing, for no one else talked like him. He reminded you of Coleridge 
or Sam Johnson. He was articulate, learned, imaginative, witty 
and devout. 

And yet this defender of Medieval traditions made at least one 
concession to modern technology (which he ordinarily con- 
temned): he loved photography with a passion. Early on, Tris 
bought a fine 35 mm. camera and learned to use it with the 
accuracy, discretion and intensity that attended most of his ac- 
tions. He lived in a comfortable home with his family on a quiet 
street in little Dyertown. On the ground floor he had fitted up a 
small room devoted to photography and to a large collection of 
books. This room was cozy; a snug little lamp would cast a warm 
glow on a desk littered with photos, books, some pipes and a tin of 

One summer afternoon, when Tris was upstairs in the bath- 
room and no one else was at home, his friend Ray Jones stood in 
Tris's study staring at some photographs that were lying on the 
desk. Ray was enough of a friend of the family to rap on the front 
door and walk right in. In those days, back in the fifties, no one in 
Dyertown bothered to lock his door in the daytime. The window 
was open and the curtains were blowing in lightly and Jones, 
always a very practical man, was carefully examining five glossy 
full-color prints, each eight by ten. It is impossible to describe the 
expression on Jones'sface beyond saying itwasodd. He abruptly 
picked up two of the pictures and paced about the room, then 
returned to the desk and looked at the other pictures once again. 

"Say, Tris!" he called out, loudly and nervously. 

"Be right down," came a voice upstairs from behind a door. 

In another two minutes Tris Campion stood beside Ray Jones. 
He apologetically gathered up the five photographs and put them 
neatly into a large manilla envelope, which he put into a desk 

"Those pictures, Tris. I couldn't help seeing them; where did 
you get them?" 

Campion looked uncomfortable. "I ... I wished you hadn't 
seen them, Ray; I didn't know you were coming." 

Jones spoke in a shaky voice, "But . . . where did you get them 
. . . how ... the colors . . . Those 'trees' I guess, the landscapes, that 
building, was it? My God, Tris, but you've got pictures of what 
must befwo new primary colors. They're incredible!" 

"Yes, so it seems," Campion replied lamely. "Plus all the usual 
colors. Rather unsettling." 

"But what are the pictures of?" 

"Isn't it obvious they could be of only one thing? Come on, I 
know you've read a lot of popular astronomy; the sober specula- 
tions of Arthur Clarke, the space scientist, for example. Use your 

"Well, yes, I thought of that right away. Somehow you've gotten 
hold of actual photos of some alien world in a strange star system; 
a system where they have those primary colors, and those land- 
scapes. But it's not only this, it's that everything looks different in 
ways you would never conceive if it were up to you. The pictures 
are ... a little frightening, and wonderful; ah, not spooky at all but 
so different, beautiful. How did you get hold of them?" 

Campion sat down behind his desk and fiddled with one of his 
pipes. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. At least you must 
realize I couldn't possibly fake those new colors." 

Jones laughed. "No, certainly not. Have you been in contact 
with UFO people, with flying saucer aliens? Is all that stuff some- 
how true?" 

Campion said with a smile, "It appears as if a lot of things were 
true that you never thought were true." 

"Apparently." But Jones had something else on his mind. 
"Tris, these pictures are worth a fortune. Think whatL/Ye Magazine 
would pay forthem. Have you tried to publish them?" 

The other man frowned. "No, I really don't know if I should 
make them public or not." 

Jones could not credit what he heard. "Why not? Oh, you mean 
these saucer people, have they told you not to?" 

"Oh, no, nothing like that. It's my own problem." 

"I don't see any problem, except where a guy like you would 
invest his money from it. You've got the chance of a lifetime. You 
could ask for a hundred thousand. What are you worried about?" 

"There are . . . considerations. How could anyone reproduce 
these colors by earth technology? Those pictures weren't taken in 
the Solar System." Campion managed to get rid of the importu- 
nate Ray Jones by pleading fatigue. He said he wanted to lie 
down and think. 

Jones left in a state of turbulence, determined to do something 
practical. He wanted another person to see Campion's pictures, 
and he figured he knew just the man. Jones was acquainted with 
Ed Murnane, a close friend of Campion, who had known him for 
twenty years. 

"You've simply got to see these pictures," Jones was say- 
ing over the telephone to Murnane, standing and listening 
sceptically, as he held the receiver. 

"Who'd ever think I'd talk like this, but Tris must've met some 
aliens from an interstellar spaceship — don't ask me how — that's 
the only source for the photos. I mean, Ed, they're really shocking, 
beyond all imagination, even the colors. But he doesn't know what 
to do with them. I want you to find out just how he got hold of them, 
and see if you can persuade him to publish them." 

Murnane said little, not wanting to be made a fool of. 

"Well, are you going to see Tris?", asked Jones. 

"Why would any exotic outer-space people get in touch with 
my obscure friend Tris, who likes to go berry-picking and take 
pictures of humming-birds? Anyway, I don't believe that interstel- 

lar ships have ever come to earth. If they had, they would have 
made open and obvious contact with significant earth people like 
heads of state, important scientists, and great religious leaders." 

"That's what I used to think, Ed, but you'll believe me when you 
see his pictures." 

"Okay, I admit you've made me curious. I'll call him." 

Murnane telephoned his friend immediately. "Ray Jones 
called me and said you have some unusual photos; said I should 
see them. What's it al I about?" 

"I was going to get in touch with you soon, Ed," said Campion. 
"Come on overtonight, will you? I think you'd be interested." 

By eight o'clock, Murnane was seated near the desk in Cam- 
pion's study, a tall Tom Collins in his right hand. Campion sat 
behind his desk, with a manilla envelope lying before him. He lit 
his pipe, sending the smoke swirling about, and settled back. 
Despite the old friendship between the two, the atmosphere was 
slightly edgy and both knew it. Each man had a problem of 
credibility to solve, but each knew the other pretty well, and there 
was mutual trust. Murnane knew his friend to be unusually stable 
in every way, and therefore, he was excited at the possibilities; 
Campion realized he was taking a risk, but he knew he held 
trumps in the manilla envelope that lay between them. 

As he threw down his match in the ashtray, Campion said 
quietly, "I want you to look at these pictures of mine, Ed. I want you 
to be the first, and possibly the last, to understand their true 
subject matter." 

Murnane moved uneasily in his chair, and sipped his Tom 
Collins. "Their subject matter? Yes, I got a jolt when Ray Jones 
told me you had pictures taken in another star system, and that 
you must have been given them by 'extra-terrestials', as they say. I 
don't know how to take this outre story, except to say that Jones 
told a good story over the phone. I suppose it's possible, but you 
monkey, you could probably fake any picture you want." 

A small smile appeared, with more smoke, about Campion's 
mouth. "You exaggerate my skill. Well, I haven't faked them — no 
one could fake new primary colors. Or the scenery." 

"Jones was impressed." 

"Yes, I know what he thinks, the spaceship and all that." 

Campion paused, and continued to smoke, then went on. "I must 
tell you that Jones is quite wrong. These are not pictures taken in 
any galaxy. I'm your oldest friend, Ed; I want you to believe me 
when I say that I took these pictures myself in the midst of a very 
strange experience. Maybe only you can believe me, foryou have 
always known my deepest concerns, and you share them. 

"You remember that last month I went to Ireland with Ruth, and 
when I was visiting some ruins of an ancient, remote abbey, it 
happened. No one else was around, Ruth had remained at the 
hotel; one moment I was simply walking alone near the old abbey, 
and the next moment I was in this very, very different kind of place. 
There seemed to be no travelling at all, no sense of motion. My left 
foot had come down on Irish grass, but my right foot came down 
. . . somewhere else. Ireland had vanished. I was, naturally, very 
excited. I had my camera and I proceeded to take these pictures." 
Campion tapped the man ilia folder in front of him. "It didn't occur 
to me that it might be wrong to do so. I looked around for awhile, 
meeting no one, yet knowing by grace where I was: in a part of 
what I might call the 'outskirts' of the traditional Christian heaven 
we believe in. Hold on, Ed; there really isn't any point in my calling 
it by any other name; the old, simple, solid, reassuring word is 
quite good enough, believe me. Then, suddenly, I found myself 
outside the Irish abbey, standing still in the everyday green grass 
of the field. Though Ireland is very beautiful, a sense of loss swept 
through me. I had returned to earth, but it no longer felt I ike 'home'. 
For one thing, I became conscious of time, and time now felt 
strange, felt like a nagging, driving sort of thing, like a lingering 
pain in the back. I looked at my watch (I had not noticed it in the 
other place); it had stopped at three-twenty nine, though it is a 
good watch. Then another tourist came by and gave me the time: 
three-thirty. The additional minute had passed after my return. My 
experience had been timeless." 

"In heaven!" said Murnane. "How much can a man believe in 
one day? First, extra-terrestials and now a story that you've been 
to heaven." 

Tris Campion smiled. "Wait a moment; I never asked you to 
believe in interstellar spaceships; I don't accept them myself. And 
I only saw the outskirts, the foothills, of . . . The Place." 

Murnane finished his drink. "True. Tell me, Tris, how do you 
figure you only saw the 'outskirts' of heaven?" 

"Because I met no one, and because of what I saw in the far 
distance. I seemed to have very sharp eyesight up there." 

"How casually you say 'up there'! What did you see in the 
distance?" asked Murnane, his spine tingling. 

His friend shook his head. "I'll try. What I saw seemed like a 
mountain, but any earth-mountain now seems timid. There is 
something in the Psalms about 'mountains and all hills' praising 
the Lord." 

"Were you scared?" 

"No. Not at all. I realize that you are probably wondering, why 
me? I don't know why, exactly. St. Paul was taken up to the 
celestial regions. Second Corinthians, chapter twelve. But why 
was I permitted to take the pictures? Am I to share them with the 
public; with anyone? I want you to advise me, Ed; I've prayed on 
the matter. First, however, I want you to look at the pictures — you, 
at least, should see them." 

He brought out the photographs from the large envelope, 
holding them face down, and spread them in a row on the desk, 
face down. Five eight by ten rectangles of white paper. To Mur- 
nane, the room, the very air, had changed. He suddenly thought 
that he simply could not just pick up these pictures and look them 
over as if they were pictures of Tahiti or some Alaskan mountain 
range. He hesitated. 

"Let me think for awhile, Tris. How about putting on some 
music." This was both a request and a command, in the manner of 
old friends. Campion put on some Handel, the 'Royal Fireworks' 
music, which both of them had always loved. Meanwhile, Mrs. 
Campion had come in and gone to the kitchen. They could hear 
her moving about. Ten minutes went by. Then Murnane turned off 
the music and said, "Tris, I came here intending to examine your 
pictures, but now I'm not so sure." 

"Oh?" said Campion, refilling his pipe. "What's the matter?" 

Murnane, troubled, glanced at the curtains moving in the soft 
summer breeze. "I feel ... I should not look at them, though I'm 
curious. The pictures are either authentic — that is, taken where 
you said they were — or they are not. They may be authentic, but 
I'm not certain. If they're not authentic, I may look at them and think 
they are, in which case I've been deluded and have a false notion 
of heavenly things." 

"Good point," Campion conceded, though disappointment 
clouded his face. 

"Please don't take offense. On the other hand, if they are 
authentic, then maybe it would be wrong, orfoolish, forme to look 
at them. It's proper for you, if you were taken there, but why me? If 
I'm supposed to 'see though a glass darkly,' not with the help of 
photographic brilliancy, then I should not presume to peek. Your 
revelation isn't mine. Do you agree?" 

"That there are some things properly hidden from us? Yes, I 
suppose so. Then why was I taken there and why was I permitted 
to take the pictures?" 

Murnane leaned forward. "For your own good — you may have 
needed some re-assurance — but not for the good of the public. 
Not so that all sorts of people might look at these pictures and 
laugh at them, laugh at what they'd call Christian trickery born of 
desperation. Imagine the vulgarity of magazine and television 
handling of your pictures; the captions, the sneering remarks from 
professional cynics sitting in the seats of the scoffers; imagine the 
letters and the phone calls. Nor can you publish them without 
mentioning their true source, for then you would be involved in a 
deception concerning your relationship with God. No, your ex- 
perience should remain private. Perhaps it was simply a gracious 
gift to you alone." 

Campion sighed, and slipped on another record of eighteenth 
century music. "I must agree with you; I had already come to the 
same conclusions you have; you're a confirmation. Too bad, I 
could've made some money, and also gotten some headaches. 
The thing that I must absolutely not do is play around with my 
experience. And Jones is no problem. No one will believe him, 
and he won't seethe pictures again. Let him carry on all he wants 
to about my elitism, or "the right of the public to know" or science 
and primary colors. I don't think it was merely a coincidence when 
I happened to read, a few days ago, a remarkable poem of Robert 
Frost's called "A Passing Glimpse." The final couplet runs: 
Heaven gives its glimpses only to those 
Not in position to look too close. 

As I see it. Ed, (taking Frost's idea of the glimpses to apply only 
to this life, for we cannot apply it to the next), my being taken to 
heaven and getting these pictures is, after all, only a passing 
glimpse. A brief look at the outskirts, so to speak, and a few 
unforgettable photographs — how lovely they are, and how 
splendid is that place where even the shadows are bright! How- 
ever, to publish them even with the best of motives (which I would 

not have), would be to 'look too close', in a sense, by exploiting 
what God has given me. I know that my motive would be vanity, 
and "greed". 

Murnane agreed fervently with a nod, then said, after a short 
silence, "That's good, Tris, that's very good. And I can apply 
Frost's lines to me, without stretching them (not that you did). For 
me, the passing glimpse is my knowing someone who has gone 
there and my believing him — a sort of shot in the arm. For me to 
look at the pictures, when I feel I shouldn't would be to look too 
close. You and I have had ourglimpses, so we are 'not in position' 
to look further in this life." 

"That's it, Ed." 

"And I want you to know this: I now believe the pictures are 
authentic. I'm sorry I doubted you. I believe your story, I believe 
you. That is enough. If our common religious beliefs, if our long 
friendship and the trust it has built up, and your story, are not 
enough, then what in the name of God would be enough? My 
'analysis' of the photographs? The application of my 'critical 
intellect' to the data? My 'scientific' judgment? How pathetic in 
matters of this kind. By the way, what will you do with the pic- 

"Let me ask you first, how difficult is it for you to sit there and 
not look at them?" Murnane shrugged. "Hard to say. I hope it will 
get easier in time. You could say it's a question of where you get 
your help." 

"Good; that's grace; has to be. Especially, when it's rammed 
down our throats by our culture that curiosity, originality, and 
information are almost absolute values. I will put the pictures 
away where no one will see them; no one will ever know about 
them from me." 

"Nor from me. And when the time comes to 'graduate'?" 

"I won't need them, then, and apparently I'm the only one who 
ever did need these pictures. So." 

"I understand." 

They shook hands, and Murnane left. Campion picked up the 
photographs, one by one, and looked carefully at each one before 
putting it in the envelope. His face was shining with joy. He looked 
at them only once again, just before he graduated, five years later. 


Edward O'Brien, Jr. 

Cigarette Smoke 

As I lie back 

And watch the blue smoke 
Curl up from my cigarette, 
I contemplate 

The unfelt currents 

That can move my life about 
In the same way 
That they are able 

To twist cigarette smoke. 

Lynn Mazzei 

The path is clear. . . 

Travel deeply into the crack 

Between the land which is and that 

which seems to be . . . 

In slow progressions, carry yourself to 

the opening . . . slowly, ever so gently 

Look deeper and deeper . . . 

close your eyes, look with your 

mind's eye — see the continuation of 

the crack. 

Never lose sight of the ever widening array of colors, light and peace 

Beyond . . . 

That what is and that which appears 
to be has been joined with that 
which is to come. 

Bill Hornby 

Please understand that, 
If we meet on our journey 

through life, 

and things don't work out, 
Let us leave each other 

in the same way we came, 

with smiles and laughter, 

not harsh words and tears. 
Because final moments are 

what we seem to remember 


Marian Verrastro 

On ocean beaches 

A woman teaches, 

her mind it reaches 

into my own. 

The words they bounce 

within my mind 

before I realize 

I'm on the wrong shore. 

Tom Richardson 

Do you remember the night we met? 
That's one night I'll never forget 
Remember Cathy's party that Saturday night? 
We necked until her brother turned on the light 
Remember the kiss in the hall when you call me a tease? 
I stopped talking to you until you begged please 
Remember the night it snowed and I spent the night at your house? 
When I feel asleep you left as quiet as a mouse 
Don't forget the nosey old ladies in the halls 
You took me to the City to see a play 
If I was to relive something it would be that day 
Remember the Monday we went to Rye Playland 
After the rollercoaster no one could stand 
The next Tuesday night you said, "Don't say Goodbye!" 
I left your house with a tear in my eye 
Tomorrow I'll be gone, I'm moving away 
With all my wishes and tears I still couldn't stay 
We wrote back and forth of dreams that could be 
We had such a love, Why couldn't they see? 
August I called to say" . . . see you next week." 
We hugged and kissed — there was no time to speak 
Now all that's left are the letters, memories and dreams 
You say you still love me but that's not how it seems 
But you promise to always be true 
I wish you'd realize I'll always love you 
Now that it's over; now that it's over 
Take care, God bless and remember — 
I love you. 

Terri Domagala 

You are warmth to a journey man, 

a dreamer's hearth. 
Your flame reaching out 

and touching what you will encounter. 

Touch me softly, gently, if you please 
Reach down inside me and take some away. 
Take it in and let it grow, inside of you, 
Keep it there it cannot die, 

That part of me you'd chance to spy. 

Keep it with you if you will, 

I am a journey man and a dreamer still. 

Matthew McDonnell 


is in your eyes — 
the intense blue of an October early morning sky, 
am I 
when I look into your eyes . . . 

Sue Crane 

Am I not taking the time 

to live, 
to find the enjoyment 

of just being 
the simplicity 
of just knowing 
I'm alive? 

Karen Frey 














I love you 

Matthew McDonnell 



Hotwrt Cp 1 







I sat at the edge of the pond staring at the reflection of the trees 
and the little people, who were rushing around cleaning off the 
incredibly high cat tails. Boats of acorn shells were rippling 
through the water. Rising, I turned towards our house, in less than 
one minute the old wooden salt boy transformed into a house of 
newspaper. The barn red door became a maroon New York Times. 
A cloud appeared composed of clusters of tiny marshmallows, I 
sat upon it, rose into the blue sky. Looking down I saw a yard of 
green marmalade, in sadness I caught a glimpse of a tarred 
driveway. I jumped from cloud to cloud, then raced along a white 
streak in the sky. The wind was whipping through my hair as I slide 
down a rainbow onto a lake of glass. After slipping, falling and 
sliding on the glass I cryed to the clouds to bring me back. An old 
oak tree slowly bent down and picked me up as if I were a fragile 
doll and placed me upon a puff of marshmallows. It was like a 
candy land, only it was real. Passing my father I hollered down to 
him but he didn't hear so I buried my head in the clouds. 

I don't know what happened but at 5:00 my mother was down at 
the edge of the pond shaking me. Maybe I fell from a cloud 9 

Diane DeVore 

IKK83& ! •! *>U ' W, '( , ' 'Iff '^ 

£ 'L X.JL- " 


Love Is Only Meant for Me & You 

Running for my life down those endless 

barren roads 
It always seemed to me love was just an 

unbreakable secret code, 
But ever since I met you girl the words 

are suddenly clear. 
And loneliness is an affair that I have 

ceased to fear. 
Even my dark and cloudy destiny has 

become a scenic view, 
And I'm telling you girl — love is only 

meant for me and you. 

Where you came from girl I will never know, 
But your hair and eyes I remember against 

the falling snow. 
Why you have decided to stay is a mystery to me, 
And are you really sure I never loved you 

during a forgotten century? 
After seeing that magnificent bird which 

upon you always flew, 
It surely reminds me girl — love is only meant 

for me and you. 

Longing foryourtendertouch is what 

keeps me alive, 
And just to feel your warm breath upon my neck 

is the only thing for which I strive. 
Your gentle hands keep me from going insane 
And just to live with you forever is all 

I wish to gain. 
My love for you is lasting, keen, and true, 
And I swear to God girl — love is only meant 

forme and you. 

Your kind words are eager, full of bliss, 
And that is what I pledge to you — 

continuing happiness. 
You took me into your arms when I was 

cold and lame, 
And now I'm grateful you are the one to blame. 
I hope you don't mind these words I sing, 

for they are all deep and true: 
Now I see you realize girl — love is only meant 

for me and you. 

Those subtle footsteps of yours I shall 

follow till my dying day, 
When it is just no longer possible for me 

to stay. 
However, this undying love will continue 

to live on, 
And flourish through the early morning hours, 

right before the dawn. 
If you ever wish to see me, remember 

the church pew, 
And listen while I whisper girl — love is only meant 

for me and you. 

Love is like a grammer song 

You do the best you can, but still it turns out all wrong. 

You start out with fragments and rhyme 
and end with a story, reading the lines. 

Capital letters, good times, go hand in hand, 
but then there are commas and periods 
I'll never understand. 

The Conjunctions followed by Exclamation points, 
but!, pause — The End 

on •■* \ « 


is like a rainbow 


Diane DeVore 



There is a void in our lives now. 

Like the tunnel of a wave, quiet and peaceful 

The tide drifts out, the waves roll on. 

Sue Crane 

Feeling Like 

Feeling like words on such a gray day 
Feeling like forests in winter's melee 
Laughing at legends of sailing away 
Speaking in silence with something to say 

Finding that something is nothing but dust 
Doing my daydreams when I know I must 
Wind and weather turn me into rust 
Looking for reasons I know I can trust 

Yesterday's laughing, I'm crying instead 
Bringing the blues I can't break ahead 
Fighting the feeling I've grown only to dread 
Swallowing words that should have been said 


Alienated from the world, 

A person under cover, 

Dodging in and out of his friends 

As they try to avoid him, 

They bask in the sun as 

He lurks in their shadows, 

Trying to get out from under their feet, 

But he still gets stepped on, 

So he tries to thrive on isolation, 

Keeping himself idly active, 

Blowing in and out of the presence of many, 

Never feeling welcome enough to stop and chat, 

Trying to hide his feelings, 

Running undercover. 

Glenn Sharko 

P. Corps 

you carry the world on your shoulders 
(with Brandy glasses 

we laughed that night.) 


you never cried, I was leaving 
for a civilized jungle) 
Butt'is I who will change it. 

Nancy Bailer 


(To Kathy) 

Sing us a song, 
0, Minstrel! 
May in your song 
Your words take flight 
Like a flaming phalanx of swans, 
Illuminating a sere land 
With beauty. 

Paint for us with your words 
Silver ships with lamps of gold 
On seas of emerald and sapphire 
In search of the riches: 
May your words scorch 
As dragon's flames 
When speaking of 
Injustice and falsehood, 
And sooth like 
Cool water 

Or a fair maid's gentle touch 
When speaking to us 
Of love. 

May your words uplift the soul 
As the wind lifts the eagle 
High above the clouds. 
Spin your spell 

With threads of silver and gold, 
Hung with precious stones 
As a spider's web in early morn 
Is hung with dew. 
Sing us a song, 
0, Minstrel! 

Lynn Mazzei 

Wedding Gown 

Wedding gown 


darkness is your home. 

You were a shiny 

Man is just a missing link 
fondly thinking he can think 

Tom Richardson 


You made me beautiful 
in my youth. 

Now your 




Nancy Bailer 

Our emotions are numb 
from the grouping of masses 
we lose our uniqueness 
which drift far like gases 

then swirl into nothing, 

not leaving a trace. 
So dare to be different 
and set your own pace. 

Tom Richardson 

My Lord 

Oh god, How I dread spending 

this evening alone, 
Sometimes my only wish is to just 

lay down and join you upon yourthrone. 
But then I have many commitments 

too important to leave, 
And I am sure you have many problems 

more important than me. 

How nice it would be to sit down with 

you and have a talk, 
Or even go up into the mountains 

and take a walk. 
I know I sometimes disappoint you, 
But I am young, and do not see things 

from your point of view. 

However, when I grow older and more mature, 
Perhaps I shall hear your words and know for sure. 
But until that day please guide me 

through this life with a careful hand, 
And I will promise to abide by your 

laws upon this land. 

Within my Hands 

Within my hands I beg to choose 
The chance to bare the fleshy fruits 
To feel the land when it's turned loose 
To harvest grain for one world's food 

My hands are such to plant the seeds 
My back is tough from war of weeds 
The sun shines bright to fill green needs 
The rain brings life to all it feeds 

And from my hands I must give life 
To see the land when fruits grow ripe 
With painted trees from frosts while night 
For in the leaves burns the life light . . . 


Merely A Man 

I am merely a man 

or so it seems 
With only hopes 

and day long dreams 

If it wasn't so hard 

to say I was 
I would have been 

but only because 

Because I cannot see 
the world as such «^*». 

They ask for me 
and take too much 

Too much of my young heart 

all full of holes 
Leaves me my mind 

to fill my goals 

Then what is to be left 

a heartless man 
Able to walk 

never to stand . . . 

G. S.